Chapter Eighteen

Miss Howard seemed to transform before Monty's eyes—and it was all Sawbridge's fault. Beneath her uncongenial exterior lived a vibrant personality and a sharp mind, which had flourished during the dance, and again as they conversed afterward. But she retreated back into her shell after Sawbridge's talk of tossing up skirts. At first, Monty had thought her embarrassed at talk that was best indulged in the company of men—or harlots. But then he realized that the poor girl had no notion of Sawbridge's meaning.

Sawbridge was right in that she lacked understanding. But it wasn't due to slowness of the mind. In fact, it was her intelligence that hampered her—she interpreted what others said in a literal, logical fashion, and responded likewise.

A voice rose above the chatter in the ballroom—a footman declaring the arrival of more guests.

"Lord and Lady Marlow!"

A smile illuminated Miss Howard's eyes.

"Lavinia!"

"You know the Marlows?" Monty asked.

She nodded. "Lavinia—I mean, Lady Marlow—is my friend."

"We must call them over." He caught sight of Marlow's blond head among the crowd and raised his arm. "Marlow—over here!"

The crowd parted to reveal Marlow and his wife. Lady Marlow was pretty enough, but she always seemed a little out of place in Society. Which perhaps explained why she and Miss Howard were friends—misfits in a world that valued conformity and despised anyone who differed.

As they approached, Lady Marlow's eyes sparkled with delight as her gaze settled on Miss Howard. But, as she glanced at Monty, their expression hardened. She stared at him—too boldly, even for the wife of an earl apparent, to stare at a duke. Then she raked her gaze over his body, but with cold detachment rather than the heated desire he was used to—as if she were sizing him up.

Devil's toes!A stare like that was enough to castrate a man at fifty paces.

And yet Marlow—the witless fool—stared at his wife with slavish devotion.

"Your Grace." Lady Marlow dipped into the slightest of curtseys. Then she turned to Miss Howard and a smile transformed her features, like the sun bursting through a thundercloud. "Eleanor, I'm so glad you're here." She took Miss Howard's hands. "Have you been enjoying yourself?" She glanced at Monty. "I know how much you dislike balls when the company is not to your taste."

Marlow drew in a sharp breath at his wife's thinly veiled insult. Miss Howard colored but said nothing.

"Your friend has been enjoying herself, Lady Marlow," Monty said. "We've been dancing, have we not, Miss Howard?"

Lady Marlow's eyes widened. "Dancing? Not under duress, I hope."

Miss Howard's color deepened. "N-no," she said. "I didn't want to, at first, but His Grace was kind enough to show me the steps—and everyone else was so friendly."

"Everyone?" Lady Marlow shot Monty a look and raised her eyebrows.

Really!The woman sounded like an inquisitor. If she had her way, he'd doubtless be stretched out on a rack, answering her questions under torture. Part of him admired her for championing Miss Howard, even though her barbs were directed at him.

"We danced in a set of six, with the Westburys, together with Westbury's son and Mrs. Trelawney," Monty said.

"Oh—the wine merchant's wife!" Lady Marlow nodded. "She's charming. As are the Westburys. That was lucky."

"It was deliberate—not luck," Monty said. "Westbury is a friend, and he was happy to oblige me and my fiancée."

Lady Marlow's eyes widened. "Your what? Eleanor—is this true?"

Miss Howard's eyes glistened with moisture.

"Forgive me, Lavinia, I thought you knew—it happened a few days ago. I should have—"

"And you offered for her, Whitcombe?" Lady Marlow continued. "What nonsense is this?"

Monty drew Miss Howard toward him, his heart aching at how violently her body trembled. "It's not nonsense, Lady Marlow. Do you think your friend unworthy of a suitor?"

"Of course not, but you, of all men…" Lady Marlow shook her head, then turned to her husband. "Did you know about this, Peregrine?"

"No, my love, I'm not one to listen to gossip."

"Nonsense!" Lady Marlow scoffed. "You always have your ear to the ground—and news as astonishing as this would have—"

"That's enough, Lavinia," Marlow said. His wife's eyes widened at the firmness in his voice. Then she let out a sigh.

"Forgive my outburst," she said. "Please accept my congratulations, Eleanor."

"Thank you," Miss Howard said. "I'm only sorry I didn't tell you myself."

Lady Marlow glanced back at Monty, the challenge still in her expression. Then she extended her hand.

"You've chosen well, Your Grace," she said. "I trust you'll give me no cause for concern about whether my friend has done the same."

Not particularly congenial—but preferable to having his balls sliced off.

"Now the pleasantries are over," Lord Marlow said, a hint of amusement in his voice, "we should find you somewhere to sit, my love—and perhaps something to drink?"

"Very well," Lady Marlow said. "Eleanor, would you accompany me?"

"Let me find you a quiet spot," Monty said. Taking Miss Howard's hand, he steered her toward a secluded corner where two young men were sitting—Lord Meredith's twin sons. They stared as he approached, amusement in their eyes as their gazes fell upon Miss Howard.

In fact, most of the company tonight, save the Westburys, had regarded Miss Howard with amusement. Rather than the bright colors and bejeweled headdresses favored by the other ladies tonight, she wore a dress of muted green tones, and a small posy in her hair fashioned from leaves and grasses. Eccentric by most standards, but she'd chosen well, for the ensemble emphasized the color of her eyes. Bright silks overwhelmed her complexion. But against the soft green tones of her dress, her skin seemed to glow, rendering her extraordinarily beautiful. Not a conventional beauty by any means, but all the more desirable for it.

And her beauty went unnoticed by the insolent young bucks who remained in their seats.

"Have you no manners?" Monty demanded.

The elder of the two opened his mouth to respond, but his brother nudged him, then stood. "Forgive us, Your Grace."

"It's not my forgiveness required," Monty said.

"Lady Marlow, Miss Howard, please take our seats," the younger said. The elder continued to stare, and Monty curled his hands into fists.

The elder stood and bowed. "Ladies, please," he said, gesturing to the seats. Then he strode onto the dance floor, his brother trotting in his wake.

"I've always said Phillip Meredith has no manners," Lady Marlow said. "Johnny is less troublesome, though he's too often under his brother's influence."

"They both need a good thrashing," Monty said as he steered Miss Howard to her seat. "My dear, would you like a glass of punch, or champagne?"

"I'd prefer water," she replied. "If it's not too much trouble."

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Nothing is too much trouble for you."

And at that moment—the urge to flatten the Meredith boys for showing her disrespect still burning in his veins—he meant every word.

*

"What has effectedthis transformation, Whitcombe?" Marlow asked while he filled two glasses with punch.

"What do you mean?"

Marlow gestured to the door through which the footman had gone to fetch Miss Howard's water. "Your gallantry."

"It's what any gentleman would do," Monty said.

"But you're not any gentleman. I've never known you to run an errand for a woman—usually, they're running after you."

"This one's different."

"She's certainly eccentric," Marlow said. "But my Lavinia adores her, therefore I'm obliged to like her."

"How can you be obliged to like someone?" Monty asked. "Surely you either like them, or you don't. The obligation is surely to give the appearance of liking them to appease someone you love."

"Are you saying that my wife is a harridan who must be appeased?" Marlow chuckled. "Perhaps you're right. I am in love—something you'll never understand."

"Because I'm incapable of love?"

"You once declared love to be an affliction that turned a levelheaded man into a numbskull"—Marlow leaned closer and lowered his voice—"which begs me to question your motives in offering for Miss Howard."

"I shall keep my motives to myself."

"As you wish, but it's obvious why you offered for her—at least, it is to me."

Monty glanced across the ballroom to the dark little corner where Miss Howard was engaged in conversation with Lady Marlow. They seemed to be having some sort of altercation.

"Your kindness is to be commended, Whitcombe," Marlow continued.

"Kindness?"

"Isn't that why you offered for Miss Howard? You're not in need of a fortune, and you never struck me as the sort of man who'd want an attractive wife. A pretty wife is more likely to stray, particularly once you lose interest in her, which a man of your appetites is bound to do. Therefore, I must conclude that you've chosen a woman who'll be grateful enough to turn a blind eye to your infidelity."

Monty stared at his friend in disbelief.

"I'm not saying you've acted purely out of self-interest," Marlow continued, "and for that I commend you—such charity is rare."

"Charity?"

"The dowry will compensate—her father's wealthy enough. Yes, on balance, I believe you'll not be sorry."

Monty could no longer contain his anger.

"What the bloody hell are you saying, Marlow?" he cried. A number of heads turned to stare at him, and he lowered his voice. "You think I've offered to Miss Howard out of pity? Don't you know how insulting that is?"

"I've no intention of insulting you, Whitcombe—I think it's a kind thing to—"

"I meant insulting to Miss Howard! You think her incapable of attracting a genuine offer of marriage?"

Monty winced as his conscience pricked at his hypocrisy.

"Believe me, Marlow," he said. "What I feel for Miss Howard has nothing to do with pity."

Marlow's eyes widened. "I meant no offense. Forgive me—I hadn't realized."

"Realized what—that I'm not a heartless cad?" Monty asked.

"It's a reputation on which you've thrived before."

In that, Marlow was right. But that reputation was losing its appeal—at least where Miss Howard was concerned.

"Your water, Your Grace," a male voice said.

The footman appeared, brandishing a glass of water on a silver salver.

"Shall I take this to Miss Howard, sir?"

"I'll hand it to her myself."

Monty took the glass, then threaded his way through the crowd, which seemed to have swelled in numbers and noise. Before he reached his destination, the musicians struck up a lively tune, and a cheer rose as couples filled the dance floor, forming a cacophony of bright colors.

A reminder, if ever he needed it, of why he disliked parties. So much chatter, yet not a single one of them had anything of worth to say.

And those bright silks! Why had he never noticed before that such a cacophony of color could bring on a megrim?

Whereas Miss Howard, in her gown of muted green, looked the most natural creature in the world compared to the peacocks milling about.

She looked up and met his gaze, and he saw pain in her eyes.

"Your water—Eleanor," he said.

Her eyes widened at the familiarity, then she took the glass. Her hands shook, and water spilled onto her gown. He reached for her hand and steadied it, and she drew in a sharp breath as their fingers touched.

"Are you well?" he whispered.

"Quite well, thank you."

"No you're not, Elle," Lady Marlow said.

"Lavinia, I…" Miss Howard's voice died as Lord Marlow joined them.

"Your punch, darling," he said, handing a glass to Lady Marlow.

The music changed in tempo as the dance grew livelier, and a shriek of laughter rose up.

Miss Howard closed her eyes and drew in a sharp breath, and Monty took her hand.

"Miss Howard, might you oblige me?"

"W-with what?"

"I find all the noise rather tiresome. Shall we take a turn about the room?"

She glanced around her environment, at the colors milling about, the sparkling jewels and feathered headdresses.

"Or perhaps you might show me the painting you spoke of earlier—in the hallway. I'm anxious to resume our conversation about art."

"In the hallway?" Lady Marlow asked. "Is that proper?"

"For a gentleman and his betrothed to engage in a private conversation?" Monty said. "What could be more proper?"

"The presence of a chaperone, that's what," Lady Marlow said. She rose, then drew in a sharp breath and lifted her hand to her mouth.

"My love?" Lord Marlow asked. "Are you well?"

"Peregrine, don't fuss," she said. Then she swayed to one side.

Marlow caught her in his arms. "That settles it. You're to remain seated until you're feeling better."

Miss Howard watched the exchange, her brow furrowed in pain.

Propriety be damned.

Monty took her hand. "Miss Howard?"

She rose and let him lead her out of the ballroom. They passed the dining room, where a number of guests were helping themselves to the buffet.

"Would you like something to eat, Miss Howard?" he asked.

She glanced at the people milling about, then shook her head.

"I'm not hungry either," Monty said. "Now—where's that painting?"

They moved along the hallway, and as soon as they were alone, her body relaxed.

About halfway along, he spotted the painting—an enormous picture of a stallion rearing up as if it were about to embark on a race on which its life depended. Or perhaps the animal had scented a mare in heat, given the hungry stare in its wide, dark eyes, their whites gleaming as if the beast were on the brink of madness. It was a look Monty had seen in countless men hellbent on seduction.

At the bottom of the painting was the inscription: G. Stubbs 1796.

"What do you think?" Miss Howard asked, her voice a soft whisper.

"It's very good."

"You don't see the flaws? It's certainly not a Stubbs."

"It's signed G. Stubbs."

"A forger's hardly likely to sign his own name if he's trying to pass his work off as a Stubbs, Your Grace," she said. "Besides—the signature's all wrong. He shortened his name in his signatures, but rarely used his initial. And he often wrote pinxit before the date."

"Pinxit? What the devil's that?"

"It's Latin," she said. "It means he painted it." She gestured toward the painting. "But Stubbs certainly did not paint this. It's a passable effort, but the proportions are wrong."

"It looks all right to me."

"The back legs are too long. Can you not see?"

Monty glanced at the rear end of the horse. Now she'd pointed it out, the legs did look a little long. But horses came in all different shapes and sizes, surely?

"Perhaps the horse had particularly long back legs," he said.

"Not if it's a thoroughbred," she replied. "Any horse breeder would have addressed an imbalance in shape. And look at the pelt. It's too flat. There's no indication of the muscles and tendons beneath the skin."

"Perhaps because they're beneath the skin."

"They'd still be visible." She held up her hand. "The bones in my hand are beneath the skin, but you can see they're there." She flexed her hand, then curled it into a fist. "See how the skin stretches over my knuckles? The change in coloration and shadows on the skin tell you that there's something beneath."

"And the same principle applies to horses?"

She smiled. "Precisely! What distinguished Stubbs from other painters is that he took great pains to study horses in terms of what lies beneath the skin. He knew the exact placement of every muscle and bone beneath the surface."

Heavens above!The wilting creature he'd pulled out of the ballroom had been transformed. Before him stood an intelligent young woman, talking animatedly about a subject with which she was familiar.

"How do you know all this?" he asked.

"I've been fascinated by Stubbs's work since I saw a copy of one of his sketches. But my interest only really started after Papa bought me a copy of The Anatomy of the Horse." She glanced at Monty as if expecting him to know what she was on about. Then she smiled. "It's a book of Stubbs's sketches. Very precise sketches of bones and muscles."

"Of horses?"

She nodded. "The subject was an obsession for Stubbs. Did you know he used to dissect the animals to study their bodies? He'd strip away the body, piece by piece, so he could draw the muscles. Then he'd remove the muscles until the skeleton was left, and he'd draw the bones."

Monty suppressed a ripple of nausea. "Is that a subject a young woman should be interested in?"

She colored. "You sound like my mother. I daresay I ought to restrict my interests to sewing cushions and donning myself in the latest fashions. But I happen to find Stubbs's work fascinating, even though the subject is a little gruesome. A resolve to study every facet of a subject—even that which is hidden—is a quality to admire. Wouldn't you rather commit yourself wholly to one subject than flit from interest to interest on a whim, never to become a true proficient?"

"But young ladies have many interests," Monty said. "I know of plenty who are accomplished at art and embroidery—as well as singing and playing the pianoforte."

"Are any of them truly skilled in their pursuits? Or do they only possess sufficient accomplishment to elicit polite applause at the end of a dinner party? I fail to see why we're obliged to applaud a young woman who's made only a cursory attempt at accomplishment."

"You wouldn't applaud out of politeness?" he asked.

"But is it politeness? It's deceitful to praise where that praise is unwarranted. Why should I applaud someone such as—let's say—Lady Arabella Ponsford, when she struggles to hold a note when she sings an air?"

"So as not to hurt her feelings?"

"I'd prefer honesty," she replied. "For example—were you honest with me when you said you didn't like the noise in the ballroom? Or that you wanted to see the painting?"

She glanced up, assaulting him with her green gaze. She was a woman who lacked an understanding of deceit—the little falsehoods uttered to make oneself appear favorable to others. And, consequently, she was not a woman it would be honorable to deceive, even if that deceit was for her benefit.

"Perhaps I wasn't completely honest," he said.

She frowned, then stepped back and lowered her gaze. He caught her hands and drew her close.

"My motives were honorable."

"Where's the honor in deceit?" she asked, her voice tight.

His conscience pricked at him. Though he believed he was doing her a favor, did she suffer from their arrangement because it required her to deceive others?

"Miss Howard, I can explain," he said, "but you must look at me."

"For what purpose?"

"So you can see the truth in what I say."

Slowly, she lifted her gaze until their eyes met, and his heart tightened at the pain in her expression.

"Do you trust me so little that it hurts to look at me, Eleanor?"

Her lips parted, and a rush of need coursed through his body at the prospect of savoring their sweet plumpness.

"I had no designs for myself when I asked you to accompany me into the hallway," he said. "I saw your distress, and recalled your dislike of crowds. But I had no wish to expose your own distress to your friends."

She blinked, and moisture gleamed in her eyes.

"Y-you mean…?" She trailed off, shaking her head in disbelief.

"I'm not known as a kind man," he said. "I've lived an indulgent life by virtue of my wealth and station, and have had neither cause nor desire to think of others. But, at that moment in the ballroom, I had not a care for myself, or for the other guests. At that moment, I thought only of you."

A tear spilled onto her cheek, and he lifted his hand to her face, wiping the tear with his thumb.

She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, a soft whimper on her lips.

Overcome by her instinctive gesture of trust, he dipped his head and brushed his lips against her mouth.

Her eyes flew open, and his body tightened at the raw desire in their expression—a desire to match his own.

Gently, he flicked his tongue against the seam of her lips. With a sigh, she parted them, and he slipped inside, tenderly at first, as if approaching an untamed filly—then he stroked her mouth in a sweeping gesture, taking possession of the lush, uncharted lands. He moved slowly at first, so as not to frighten her, until she began to respond, flicking her tongue against his, seeking his tongue out when he withdrew it, and parting her lips further to invite him into her warm depths.

Sweet heaven!Unconstrained by convention, she was exploring her own needs—honestly and innocently. He could think of nothing more arousing.

He deepened the kiss, and, slowly, her body came to life. A spark of need ignited in his groin as he felt two hard little peaks nudging insistently against his chest.

Unable to stop himself, he wrapped his arms around her and caressed her body, moving his hands gently at first, before sweeping them across her back, taking possession of her. Then he dipped his hand lower until he reached her derriere and squeezed the soft, round flesh.

A small cry reverberated through her body, and she shifted her thighs apart. His senses were assaulted by the scent of lavender and spices, together with the sweetest, most delectable scent of all—the scent that all men craved.

The unmistakable scent of a woman ready to be fucked.

Devil's toes!What the bloody hell was he doing?

His conscience crashed through his ardor, dousing it as thoroughly as if he'd been thrown into an ice-cold lake. He broke the kiss and pulled back, holding her at arm's length.

Her eyes flew open, and, for a moment, his cock threatened to explode. Face flushed, eyes bright, she looked like a woman on the verge of her climax. Then the passion in her gaze turned to shame. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she let out a cry.

"Miss Howard—I must apologize," he said. "I have no idea what overcame me. Rest assured, I'll not take such liberties again."

If anything, his assurance seemed to increase her distress.

"Lady Marlow was right," he added. "I'm a cad of the worst degree."

She shook her head. "No, Your Grace. You're kinder than you would have people know. I-I behaved abominably just then. I…"

He caught her hand. "You have nothing to reproach yourself over. If there's anything I can do to make it up to you, then you only need ask."

She glanced at the painting. "No, there's nothing."

"Except, perhaps, the painting," he said.

"The painting?" She frowned. "I doubt Lord Francis would sell it—and I wouldn't want it. If I wanted a Stubbs replica, I could paint it myself."

"Not that painting," he said. "Would you like to see my painting?"

"Your painting?"

Monty smiled to himself at the delight in her voice. "Yes," he said. "At my home."

"Wouldn't it be an imposition?"

"Of course not. It's only a day's carriage ride."

"Oh," she said, her eyes widening. "I-I thought you meant your house in London. So the painting's…"

"At Rosecombe—my country estate. Would you like to study a real Stubbs—that is, of course, if it is real?"

"Oh, yes!" Her exclamation, filled with childlike enthusiasm, touched his heart.

"And this time," he added, "I shall observe propriety and secure you a chaperone for your stay."

Her smile died, but she nodded. "Oh—of course. Yes—very well. I do need a chaperone, of course, but…"

"I was thinking of Lady Marlow," he said. "She's your particular friend, and I have no wish to impose on your mother, who no doubt wishes to remain in London to chaperone your sister."

He could almost taste the relief in her expression, and he offered his hand.

"Then it's settled?" he asked. "I shall speak to your father directly. After all, there's nothing unusual in a man taking his fiancée to see the house of which she'll soon be mistress."

She looked away, and he cursed himself inwardly.

But there was no denying that they'd entered into their arrangement knowing full well that it would soon come to an end.

No matter how much he wished that end would never come.